The Lands In Between
by KariAgaKhan
Summary: Join Sparhawk and his companions on a new journey, set after the culmination of their adventures in the Tamul Empire. Fifth chapter in progress.
1. Prologue

**The Obligatory Author's Note:**

I do not intend to make a profit with this work. The characters, locations, concepts and histories recognized as creations of David and Leigh Eddings are for entertainment purposes only. All original characters, character names and fictional places, whether or not they are associated or included in some way with the Eddings-created characters/within the Eddings universe, are still the property of this author and should not be used without express permission. Pronunciations of original characters, places, other notes, etc, will be found in "Author's notes" at the bottom of each chapter.

**And finally, please help fuel the creative process. Review! Please be honest, but remember, I'm most partial to constructive criticism.**

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**Prologue**

Excerpted from _The Histories of Styricum_  
"Legend of the Lands in Between"  
Compiled by the Ancient History Department of the University of Matherion

Long before Elenes and Tamuls ruled, the Styric peoples emerged to be fruitful, multiply and dominate the land. As their need for living space grew, primitive Styrics left Daresia, crossed the vast forests of what we now call Zemoch and entered Eosia It was after this great migration that Styricum emerged from the mire of prehistory.

Outside of Sarsos, there is no major enclave of Styricum maintained. So it was when Styricum entered the lands to the west. Instead, Styric society arranged itself into small villages headed by a single Elder or Council of Elders, depending on the size of the community. Traditionally, each village devoted their worship to one of the nine hundred ninety-nine Younger Gods of Styricum, rather then dividing their loyalties between multiple gods. That is not to say that Styricum evolved into a factional society, however, for regardless of the village and god to whom a single Styric belonged, the _existence_ of all the Younger Gods was always acknowledged. By the second century BE (Before Elene Migration), Styric settlements were scattered throughout the Eosian continent.

As they expanded, Styrics placed growing importance on their origins, the foundations upon which Styricum itself was built. In the early centuries of migration, those that could made the trip back to Sarsos on the Daresian continent. Over time, it became a pilgrimage, and the practice endured until the spread of Elene and Tamul peoples made such travels difficult.

But in early days the connection to their homeland was still strong, and Styrics who never set foot in Sarsos still yearned to touch the earth of their sacred city. According to oral tradition, Elders pled to the Younger Gods for assistance, each asking for some miracle that would allow them to share the seat of Styricum with their people.

And the Younger Gods answered.

To their people they would allow this one miracle: When old in years or near death, a Styric who wished to see the place from whence they came could entreat the Gods. If the supplicants were pure of spirit, the Gods would allow them to pass through the Lands in Between to the land of their people. But this did not come without cost, for passage could only be made once. To attempt to return via this passage or make the journey more than once was expressly forbidden by the Younger Gods. It was also exceedingly risky; if travelers passing through lost themselves to the void, they would go astray and be forever in the Lands In Between, unable to return. Only the most confident and stalwart of Styrics, then, made this journey, while the rest of their brethren became content with life in their villages, far away from Sarsos.

Crossings could not be made at any random location. Those in tune with the Younger Gods located spots to his or her god's liking; usually a copse of trees or special rock formation, it was almost always natural rather than man made. Styrics are beings of nature, more than any society known today, so this part of the legend is certainly in keeping with the characteristics of this sophisticated, yet, superstitious civilization. A few gateways were occasionally constructed and consecrated to multiple members of the pantheon of Younger Gods, but this part of the legend has not been found in any of the oral stories collected, and is therefore not considered part of the Styric Oral tradition.

It was said that among the particularly learned, acolytes of the Younger Gods, and devotees of the Secrets there existed some who developed such deep knowledge that their ties to the land of men grew tenuous. When they tired of the toils and tribulations of this world, these Trapped Souls (as they were called) crossed over to the Lands In Between. Neither living nor dead, they communed with their gods until they passed into the beyond altogether. These men and women are known in Styricum as "Those that Went Before" and are featured prominently in a certain body of tales circulated throughout the Styric world. In such legends, after performing a deed and receiving the blessing of the god to which they are devoted, the hero or heroine does not return to their simple village, but rather passes beyond all realms of thought and knowledge to the Lands in Between. Such stories quite possibly saw resurgences in popularity during periods of particularly virulent Elene bigotry and violence toward Styric kind.

As the Tamul peoples began to push outward from Eastern Daresia, vast populations of Elenes were displaced, and began to migrate westward, even into the Eosian continent. The dominant religion of the Elene peoples, far different in its appearance and less hierarchical than the Elene Church of today, went with them. (It is this point in history that the Church in Eosia begins their official mark of time. Eosian scholars designate history following Elene migration as CE—Church Era— a practice begun by the Archprelacy in Chyrellos.)

Elene expansion westward inevitably displaced Styric settlements. Western Styrics and Styrics in Zemoch were largely cut off from one another, for rarely do Styrics (then and now) travel far from their altars. Unlike the populations in Zemoch, Elenes and Styrics on the remainder of the Eosian land mass live as they do in Daresia—separate and suspicious of one another. Pressure to survive drove Styrics and Elenes to intermarry, and lack of both Church presence and connection with Styrics in either Eosia or Daresia meant that no force was present to forbid it.

In Western Eosia, Styrics maintained their traditions through close communion with fellow Styrics to the exclusion of their Elene neighbors, and the Elene Church was very strict in enforcing what it viewed as heresy. Only with the formation of the Militant Orders and the then unprecedented decision to instruct Church Knights in the Secrets would a tenuous truce between Elene and Styric take root.


	2. Chapter One

**Part One – Styric River**

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**Chapter One**

Anyone traveling along the Cardos-Endde road would be so entranced by the autumn beauty of the mountains by day and intent upon avoiding bandits by night, that they always missed it. Few folks lingered for long in the mountain passes, but not just because of the criminal element that hid here. Long had legends of strange creatures and fearsome ghouls circulated among the peasantry living in the foothills, and while the merchants laughed at the superstitious yokels, they never spent more time on the mountain roads than was necessary. Bear and wolf prowled these mountains, lending a greater element of danger to the macabre stories told to children around campfires and at harvest festivals.

Margos would not have had it any other way. It made his job easier.

The brave—and more importantly keen-eyed—traveler would notice, when he crested the third rise along the mountain road, a small dirt path leading away from the main pass. Along the high walls were etched strange symbols that, to the untrained eye, were crude and meaningless. Walking a league or two would bring one to a dense forest, filled with trees of indeterminate age and majesty that a woodcutter would be tempted to sell his family to obtain. Three leagues more, and there appeared a grassy clearing and, before the existence of pass and forest, the best kept secret in Elenia.

Margos' father had been but a twinkle in _his_ father's eye when his Styric ancestors happened upon this island in a storm of Elenes. The village elders set about at once a plan of concealment, spooking weary peasants on foggy nights with magicks used by naughty Styric children to scare one another. By the time Margos had entered the world nearly a century later, the story had taken on a life of its own and only needed the occasional tending by council appointees. When he was old enough, Margos participated in these "raids" and later led them. It was the ultimate in fun for the youth in the village, and the select few allowed to scare the Elenes became local celebrities.

When they settled the village, the first elders had to solve the obvious problem of communication with the outside world of Styricum. The Outer Styrics or "Outers" as they became known were still brethren, and news of their people was the lifeblood of any Styric village. It was decided early on to use the assistance the Younger Gods for emergencies only and traditional means for ordinary news and commerce. Maintaining contact with the Outers also ensured that the village would continue to bring in new blood, to survive.

It wasn't until Margos became an elder himself that he learned the most shocking news: Elenes _did_ know his home existed. Some group of these uncouth souls calling themselves Pandions (of all the ridiculous names!) were aware of Styric presence in the Mountains, but (and this was more shocking still) kept and _protected_ their secret. If that weren't surprising enough, it was nothing compared to the outrageous news that Styrics voluntarily taught these men, who wore armor and ran around on horses while wielding giant steel-forged weapons, the sacred craft that connected them with their gods.

Margos simply couldn't believe that a Styric in his right mind would tutor such barbarians in the Secrets. But tutor them they did, and though it pained Margos to admit it, some of them were quite proficient.

Representatives of the order came regularly to meet with the Elders, see how the villagers fared and to bring news from other villages. He'd held particular regard for their preceptor, Lord Vanion, a stern yet fair man of senior years who commanded respect among Elenes and Styrics. On one occasion he'd even been fortunate to meet Sephrenia, the tiny woman who'd installed herself as their tutor in the Secrets. Her reputation throughout Styricum as High Priestess of the Child Goddess Aphrael preceded her and it was hard, looking upon her, to fault her for her choice to teach the Elenes. He'd been shocked to learn of their disappearance ten years earlier, but being an observant man, he'd wondered if they fled into the unknown together. Margos still shuddered at the idea of a Styric being so intimately involved with an Elene, but with the Preceptor and the High Priestess, he'd made an exception. It wasn't until Darentha suddenly announced his intention to depart and take Sephrenia's place that Margos' heart sank a little. His younger brother had been a constant in his life for fifty years and suddenly that connection seemed irrevocably severed.

The same news of Lord Vanion's resignation as Preceptor of the Pandion Order came with it new of his replacement. Lord Sparhawk, Queen's Champion and Prince Consort of Elenia, had been installed as Interim Preceptor. Margos, like many Styrics with some knowledge of Elenian politics, knew of Sparhawk, but only by reputation. It wasn't until Margos tried to dissuade Darentha from leaving the safety of their home that the elder learned of the man's true significance, and his brother only needed to utter one word to drive it home.

Anakha.

The Man Without Destiny, who single-handedly defeated the evil Elder God Azash? _Lord Sparhawk_ was a savior of Styricum? An _Elene?_

Sometimes the world just didn't make sense.

After the dreary year following Azash's demise, Darentha returned to visit his brother. While he appeared travel weary, Margos beheld a new strength in his sibling of which he had not been aware in the past. When he broke his embrace with Darentha, Margos noticed for the first time that the tutor was not alone. The new preceptor had finally made his first trip to the hidden village. Having recently been elected as head of the Elder Council, it was Margos' right to greet Lord Sparhawk ahead of the other elders. In the days that followed their departure, Margos thanked the Younger Gods at least once a day that he'd been able to speak with the Prince Consort and Preceptor without making a complete ass of himself.

Since that meeting, Margos the Elder had come to understand (barely, for they _were_ strange) the ways of the Pandion Knights and the man who led them. The years passed, and the routine that had been established long before he drew his first breath continued as it always had. People found comfort in routine, and Margos, who sometimes knew more of the outside world than he wanted, was no exception.

So on that same fall night, when the village seer sought his council on strange and important matters, Margos was not pleased.

"I'm not going to regret this conversation, am I, Faman?" Margos asked warily.

"It depends, Margos," the seer replied smartly, "on whether or not you want me to wait to tell you after it is too late to do anything about it." Faman punctuated her reply with a smile.

Margos sighed dramatically. He hated women's smiles. They always seemed to precede men smiling and nodding and looking forward to whatever came next. That smile was why he'd married her in the first place. He always looked forward to it the first thing in the morning, and hated it when it was gone.

The two walked over to a small patch of grass shaded by an ancient oak and sat. It was the spot they always came to when they wished to spend quiet spells together. It was where he'd asked her to become his wife and she accepted, noting that she'd been waiting for him to finally get the courage to tell her he loved her.

"Alright, then, tell me what disaster to Styricum have you foreseen?"

Faman raised an eyebrow. "You don't look so happy, husband," she observed, smoothing his wild hair away from his forehead. "I daresay it has little to do with me."

Margos leaned into his wife's caress. "Only memories and what they mean, Faman," her replied. "No unhappiness, unless you count missing Darentha as a gloomy thought." That gentle hand stilled on his shoulder. "You always get that faraway look in your eyes when a visit nears, my love."

"Do not worry about me, dear," the elder said after a few moments of silence. "Darentha follows his destiny, as we all do. Not since the year after Azash's destruction have I felt an aching melancholy." To distract himself, he asked her about the news she brought to him.

"It's the stones," she replied.

Would anyone else have uttered those same three words, Margos would have been utterly confused, if not a little irritated at such a vague statement. But Faman was a seer, and thirty years of marriage had trained Margos to understand his wife, no matter how few words she devoted to explanation of esoteric subjects.

"_The_ stones?" he asked. His wife nodded. "At the fork of the river that bears the name of our people."

"In Deria then," Margos concluded. "What exactly have you seen?"

"It is hazy, Margos," Faman explained, with a tone that told him how confused she was. "I only know that something is in the wind. It is not necessarily sinister," she added, seeing the question in his face, "but it must be looked into. Those stones are a mystery to me. I have no way of knowing their significance. I must speak with Darentha when he arrives."

"I'll see to it that you have his undivided attention for as long as you require it. I learned a long time ago not to dismiss your visions." Faman nodded, visibly relieved. "When does he arrive, husband?" she asked, smile returning. "In two days' time, unless business delays him." Margos stood and extended a hand to his wife, which she gladly accepted, and the two returned to their home, making plans for Darentha's impending visit.

Apparently no pressing business dogged him, for true to Margos' word, Darentha, brother lost to the outside world arrived two days later, bearing general news for the elders, two kid-goats and five lambs for the herders, and honey candy for the children.

Darentha shared his brother's respect for Faman's visions. When the sister-in-law he loved the most corralled him, he listened, probably more intently than Margos had done.

"I have not had the opportunity to see the stones for myself, but I have heard a thing or two about them," he said after Faman had described the vision. "From what I read, these stones were built by They Who Came Before. According to legend, they are a gateway to some other place. Some speculate they lead to the realm of the gods of our people, while others who are more steeped in the ancient prophesies see them as a link to some other plane of existence."

The silence that followed was not lost on Faman's brother-in-law.

"I've completely lost you, haven't I?"

Faman winced, embarrassed. "Not necessarily, brother," she assured him. "But the implications are lost on me. Why would I dream of these stones? What connection have I to them, and why have I not dreamed of them before, if they carry such power?"

"I have no idea, Faman."

A light suddenly appeared in Faman's eyes. "Would Lord Sparhawk know?"

Darentha's furrowed brow betrayed his confusion. "You didn't mention him in your vision, sister. Why do you now?"

"Your Lord Sparhawk learned much at High Priestess Sephrenia's knee, Darentha," Faman rolled her eyes heavenward. "Perhaps she taught him about the ancient places." The tutor to the Pandion order suddenly felt rather silly. Anakha had a hand in defeating Zalasta, one of Styricum's greatest shames, to be sure. To Darentha's chagrin, he'd become so aware of this Anakha business that he often forgot about Lord Sparhawk, the man.

"I'll make it a point to consult with him, Faman," he promised, a little contrition in his voice.

"Thank you, brother dear." Faman extended her hand. "Now would you mind helping an old woman up? I have to see to a celebratory supper in honor of your visit."

Helping to her feet, Darentha could not help but reply, "You'll never grow old, sister!"

Faman smiled the smile that won his brother's heart thirty years ago.

"What a nice boy you've become," she said, patting his cheek.

As he watched her go, Darentha wondered if Margos knew how lucky he really was.

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**Author's Notes:**

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Original Characters (In Order of Appearance):  
Margos (**Mär**-gOs) –Village Elder in hidden village  
Famar (Fuh-**mär**) –Seer, Margos' wife  
Darentha (Dä-**ren**-thuh)—Pandion tutor in the Secrets; Margos' younger brother.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

It was raining again. Storms weren't unusual this time of year, but after a while one never managed to get through the day without feeling a little soggy. The trees, just beginning to don their autumn colors, hung in the evening gloom. They provided little shelter for anyone silly enough to forget their umbrella in the rush to get home to their families. The flat she rented was hardly welcoming with its bare walls, moving boxes and furniture wrapped in shipping materials. She had Seymour to greet every evening, but goldfish weren't known for loyalty to their masters. For these reasons, unlike most folks in the evening commute, Siobhan O'Halloran was not in a hurry to return home at the end of the day.

It was getting increasingly difficult to ward off the sleepies. Siobhan had only been in London for three months, and she still wasn't completely used to the time difference. She'd only a full day to acclimate herself before she began work at London's Interpol station, and since then her down time had been nonexistent. During the first few days after her plane touched down at Heathrow, Mom and Patrick had yet to hear news of her arrival across the pond. A message was all she'd been able to leave; it wasn't until she got their answering machine the first time that she remembered London was six hours ahead. She'd immediately nixed the idea of leaving yet another message, knowing the blistering phone call she'd receive from stateside if her family didn't hear from her directly. Until they'd arrived home from work back in New York, she'd had no choice but to stay awake. Just a few more hours of wandering the town, and she'd finally been able to call them, and only then was she free to yield to exhaustion.

Since then, she'd been running on fumes, going on autopilot until she could allow the jet lag to run its course. After the flurry of activity for the ninety days following her move to London, she finally had that chance. A holiday had been granted her in compensation for her willingness to dive right into the work. She had a week to acclimate to the time zone and get her home in order before she returned to the branch office.

Now she just had to stay up long enough to get to bed at a reasonable hour—on Greenwich Mean Time. Were it not for the signs advertising this or that Welcome to Autumn party (the British, for all of their reputed stuffiness, looked for as many reasons to celebrate and socialize as their American cousins), she would have easily forgotten what day it was, she was so tired.

So the rain was a welcome companion on Siobhan's quick tour around Notting Hill, the neighborhood she now called home. Just like that first night three months ago, she walked the streets in a valiant effort to stay awake. The smell of wet streets mixed with curry, garlic and fish 'n' chips wafting in her direction told her she was approaching the commercial area.

It also reminded her that she hadn't eaten since that morning.

Her stomach quickly made it clear it would no longer tolerate such abuse. The flat was still in want of food, so she had little choice but to head over to one of the local eateries to fill the gnawing sensation in her belly. Siobhan passed on one restaurant after another on Notting Hill Gate Road, finding nothing to tempt her until she reached Gate Restaurant. It was the neon Guinness sign that drew her in. A hardy meal was certainly welcome. A pint of stout . . . now _that_ was a call to prayer. Gate was known locally for serving a fusion of International dishes ranging from seafood and Cajun spices to good old bangers and mash. Having been told numerous times that she should try it at her earliest opportunity, she did not hesitate to descend the steps into the basement pub.

Once she recovered from the shock provoked by the lack of cigarette smoke, Siobhan stood in line to enter. Anyone taking note of her would have beheld a tall young woman in her early twenties, with the red hair and green eyes that proclaimed her Irish heritage. She appeared lost in thought as she waited, and unlike the others who were impatient to join a coworker or girlfriend already inside, she was content to let the sounds of the pub wash over her. The DJ's mix work blended into the cacophony around her; the warmth of the basement restaurant cocooned her and filled her weary bones. She was altogether lovely even with lines of weariness etched in her face; when she was at peace she was simply beautiful. So, by the time she retuned from her reverie, she'd not only reached the front of the line, she'd also caught the attention of several men and a couple of women besides.

But she only had eyes for one of them, and in the short time that she'd known him, he'd never failed to put a smile on her face.

"Felix!"

A tall, wiry male in leather pants and a black t-shirt with "429" in hot pink was headed her way with a surprised expression on his face. When he reached her, his excitement immediately turned to concern. Felix surveyed the woman in front of him and grabbed her right hand, assuring the hostess that his table had room for at least one more. "We're expecting at least ten tonight, Claudette," Felix grinned at the young lady behind the podium. "Siobhan here will fit in with no problem at all. I've been trying to get her to come with us since she moved in across the hall! Not that you've had any time to unwind," he added, turning again to Siobhan. Together they headed over to a table where five others were seated. The redhead noted the balloons and wrapped items of various sizes scattered on the table. "Have I intruded upon something?" She asked her friend. "Certainly not, girl. We're celebrating a friend's birthday." Felix noticed the question forming on her lips and answered, "Don't worry, woman, you haven't met this one, so your presence will be gift enough." He looked closely, thinking not for the second time how tired she looked. "Poor baby. I told James we needed to keep an eye on you, you seemed so lost when you first arrived, what was it, three months ago?"

When Siobhan accepted the position at Interpol in London six months earlier, she took two weeks in the city to search for a flat to rent before returning to New York for the Big Move. She was lucky enough to meet with another agent in the London branch who knew of a vacancy in his own building. So to Notting Hill she went, and found herself in a long line of hopefuls waiting to see the two bedroom two bath flat. Siobhan spied the lanky man she would later consider a friend, left the line, and boldly walked to the door to speak to him.

To the man's raised brow she replied, "James sent me." Ignoring the outraged glares of the applicants behind of her, Felix grinned from ear to ear, and took her inside.

Felix took in anyone who rented flats in his building, provided they could live with his lifestyle. James was not as interested in the landlord business, but did occasionally find tenants for Felix to interview. That James did not disclose the nature of his relationship with Felix worked to the latter man's advantage. If the prospective lessee couldn't handle just how close they were (it wasn't hard to tell) Felix rejected that one automatically. In Siobhan's humble opinion, anyone uncomfortable with homosexuals didn't belong in New York, and said so to Felix. From there the rest of the interview focused more on decorating ideas than tenant-landlord compatibility.

Half an hour later, Felix emerged alone to tell the other prospective tenants that the flat was no longer vacant. In the months prior to her move across the pond, Siobhan kept a steady correspondence with her new landlord; she had a ready friend waiting in the terminal when she and her worldly possessions arrived at Heathrow Airport.

"When James gets a promotion, I hope you're on his team." Felix whispered. "I need you two to look out for each other." Siobhan gave him a tired smile. "I believe he can pick his own crew," she whispered back. "He's already got a few hundred folks kissing his ass for the privilege."

Felix glanced over at the table where James, who looked as tired as Siobhan, sat chatting with a rather short, chubby woman wearing—according to Felix—"standard dyke haircut number twelve", a close cropped cut save for a thin braid hanging past her shirt collar. James barely had time for a hug from Siobhan before Felix, who was still on the subject of James' promotion, pulled him aside, leaving the two women to introduce themselves. The rather short, chubby women wearing standard dyke haircut number twelve became Francesca ("Frankie" to my friends), a metal sculptor out of Bristol who relocated to London twelve years ago. She loved lipstick lesbians ("there's only so much butch a relationship can take"), collected rare books ("my dad and I reconnected this way before he died") and adored _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ ("Dr. Frankenfurter's the only man I've ever considered fuckin', seriously.") and her long time partner, Paula ("like Poundstone, only pretty").

In the fifteen minutes it took for the rest of the group to get through the line, the four between them had tossed back six shots of tequila each. Nonetheless, it was the flurry of introductions and the personal data that went with them that had Siobhan's head spinning. A lesbian couple here, two gay couples there, and a few straights including the only single male, Michael, the man of honor, rounded out the party. She barely managed to reflect on how much she enjoyed the evening and write down her plans to attend a Halloween Concert with the group before she collapsed on her bed at 3 a.m. It was fortunate that she also remembered to turn off her alarm clock, since she typically rose each morning just after dawn.

When most revelers return home from a night of entertainment, several events come to pass to remind the individual in the morning of their fun—or folly—from the night before. One universal truth centers on the subject of clothing, and applies to both the inebriated and sober partier. If one manages to make contact with their bed before disrobing, they will most assuredly wake up the next day in smoke-filled, wrinkled party attire. Otherwise, their dwelling place will be littered with those same clothes, either piled about their bedroom or trailed from the front entrance of their home to their bed, left to be removed the next day, often in a state of panic before answering the door to admit a guest of some importance. For the intoxicated, an additional component to the game must be addressed. If one successfully avoids the unfortunate scenario of entertaining a guest of questionable character and dubious beauty, embarrassment in the eyes of one's peers is also prevented. Then there is the sorry practice of controlling one's stomach which, for the extremely unlucky, will fail in the most inconvenient place in their home, and never on hard wood or tiled surfaces, to be discovered while in the aforementioned panicked state and covered with a potted plant or other moveable object with the self-made promise to address the offensive mess at a more convenient—and less nauseated—moment.

Siobhan managed to avoid the least savory of these options, and even went so far as to dump her clothing in the hamper before climbing, starkers, into her bed. Shots of tequila and Irish whiskey (any other type would have earned her scorn at home) did not reappear during the night. She would have opened her eyes the next day with neither a stagger nor a wince and her well-placed Irish pride would have remained intact.

Unfortunately for her, while she exercised great forethought in turning off her alarm clock, she'd completely forgotten about the telephone. The obnoxious ring pealed suddenly right next to her ear barely two hours after she'd gone to bed. It would have been highly embarrassing if anyone had been there to witness her ungraciously naked fall from her bed in her startled effort to silence the phone. The receiver hit the floor at the same time she did.

"Hello? Siobhan?"

That voice was rather familiar. As she cleared her head, she realized the hellfire she'd endure if she gave into the urge to hang up the phone. Sighing, she wrapped herself up in the bedclothes—they were tangled about her, anyway—grabbed on the phone and sat on her bed.

"I hear you breathing, girl."

Siobhan rolled her eyes. "I'm here, Patrick. To what do I owe this call at such an ungodly hour?"

A chuckle rolled on the other side of the line. "It's not even midnight on _my_ side of the pond, little sis." She could practically see her brother's grin. "How're those Brits treating you?"

Siobhan couldn't help but smile. Patrick couldn't stand the British; it was one of those silly Irish prejudices of his. "I'm doing well, brother mine. I'm making friends and influencing people."

"That's my girl." her brother responded. "So why haven't we heard from you?"

Siobhan emitted an unlady-like snort. "Work, Patrick. Perhaps you've heard of it? It gets you up in the morning, runs you through the day, and sends you home at night. For all of your efforts you receive a paycheck."

Patrick pretended to think about it for a moment. "Nope, doesn't sound familiar." He chuckled again. "I'm content in my illustrious role as a professional student. I'll leave the hard stuff to the rest of you, and you can keep me in the manner of living to which I've become accustomed."

They continued on in a similar fashion for about an hour, trading insults and having a general good time before turning to more serious matters. Mother was okay, though her heart still remained a concern for her doctors, Da was still tinkering on the old car project and had even gotten his friends in on the act, and the family continued to worry about their lost sheep living so far away. Siobhan dutifully assured Patrick that she was okay, sleeping well and eating properly, and she had yet to completely tarnish the O'Halloran name.

"Try Harder!" he scolded, then reminded her to make plans to come home for Christmas, since she'd already made it clear that she couldn't make Thanksgiving.

By the time Patrick rang off, his sister was beginning to fall asleep on the other end of the line. Before she crawled back under the covers, Siobhan made sure to turn the ringer on her phone off. Satisfied that she would not be disturbed until rapture or after she woke up, whichever came first, she let sleep wrap her in its embrace again.

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_The grass was always so green this time of year. A warm breeze blew across the valley and the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky. She loved the spring more than the other seasons put together. Goslings floated near the riverbanks next to their mommies. Little lambs frolicked in the meadows and sometimes played with her. Mommy was busy, gathering wild herbs before the bunnies ate too many. _

_It would soon be time to get to work planting their little garden. Mommy told her to go play her little heart out, for soon she would need her help, and there would be less time to play until all of the vegetables were planted. The gardens were so "very important" because there wasn't always meat to eat. Mommy wasn't much of a hunter, and the fish and bunny traps did not always catch enough to feed both of them. Mommy knew how upset she got when she got meat to eat and mommy didn't. It was difficult raising enough to barter for the wool; there was no way they could afford the mutton, at least that's what mommy said. But they were so fluffy and cute—why would anyone want to eat them anyway? The same goes for the bunnies._

_It was almost time to go home. The rumble in her tummy meant that the porridge she'd eaten for breakfast was gone. She'd uncovered some abandoned quail eggs earlier that morning, and the thought of having them for lunch made her hop around with delight. Maybe mommy found more of those flaky herbs that taste really yummy with them. _

_One of the lambs bounded over to her and pulled on the hem of her dress. This one was her favorite, because she was the smallest and often cuddled with her at night, so she was nice and warm while she slept. The shepherd did not seem to mind, for it was one lamb the wolves would not steal after the sun left to warm the other side of the world_

_Her little lamb bleated plaintively, as if to say, "Come play!" Laughing, she got up from her patch of grass and began to chase it around the meadow._

_

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_**Author's Notes:**

**

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**Original Characters (In order of Appearance):  
Siobhan O'Halloran – Interpol operative in London, UK  
Felix (Myer) – Friend and Landlord to Siobhan  
James (Cole) – Interpol operative in London, UK; partner to Felix, friend to Siobhan  
Frankie (Hofstra) – Friend to Felix and James, sculptor in London

Notes for Reviewer(s)  
"Pled" is also an acceptable past tense and present participle of "plead". I used it in this case because it sounded more formal and scholarly, and I view the Ivory Towers presented in the Eddings novels to be a little on the stiff side, though there are always exceptions. Thanks for the keen eye!

Much to my embarrassment, I discovered a couple of mistakes in the text for this chapter in an earlier uploaded version. I've since corrected them, so depending on when you read this chapter, you may or may not encounter them. If you do see something I've missed (I most certainly hope you will not) please e-mail me directly.


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's note:**  
It's definitely been too long since I updated this story. Originally, this chapter was supposed to be longer, but since so much time has passed and it's at a point where a chapter could be ended, I've decided to keep it the same length as the previous chapters and start a new one.

I got extremely busy at the beginning of 2006, and taught my first college history course that fall. I started a history PhD program in September 2007. I will be contributing more to my pieces from this point on, but over the next two or three years will only be able to work on my fan fiction or original fiction during semester breaks. Since breaks aren't necessarily opportunities for doctoral candidates to completely kick back, I'm sure I won't be devoting all of my free time to fiction writing, original or not. Still, I plan on giving myself over to this as often as I can. I'm working on the next chapter as you read this one: hopefully it will be finished before the new year. Cheers, folks!

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**Chapter Three**

The weather was dismal, as it always was this time of year. The seat of the kingdom of Elenia bathed in the gloomy mists of early spring in the morning, the torches hissing as flame and water met. An alert watchman would have noticed a lone figure headed toward the gate. He was a large man, who by appearances was obviously trained in the art of war. He was wrapped in heavy traveling cloak as a barrier against the wind. A warhorse of dread countenance bore him.

The rider approaching the city sighed in resignation. It seemed that his homecomings, regardless of the time of year, would always be greeted with poor weather. He was not generally a superstitious man, having been raised a son of the Elene Church, but his life was an extraordinary one, even for a Church Knight. So whenever the rain home accompanied his arrival home, he entertained himself by imagining some new adventure, filled with elaborate plots, colorful characters and concepts that, by their very nature, bordered on the heretical.

The exercise was frivolous, but it certainly beat thinking about the paperwork awaiting him at the palace or—God forbid—the chapter house.

As the knight approached the north gate, his keen hearing picked up scuffling sounds coming from the gatehouse. Halting his horse, the man dismounted and crept with deadly silence to the door of the guard station. With amazing speed, he drew his sword and wrenched open the door, prepared to assist the watchman under duress.

It was with great surprise, then, that his heroism was greeted with a decidedly feminine shriek.

After a moment of frenzied dressing and fervently uttered apologies, the guard emerged from the gatehouse, cringing violently.

"M-my apologies M-my L-I mean P-prince Sparhawk." He stammered nervously. He took a deep breath and continued. "Welcome home."

Sparhawk inclined his head. "It's good to be back, neighbor," he replied. "Although we're in peacetime, it is customary for more than one guard to man this gate. Do you mind telling me where your partner is?" The guard winced. "He went to the privy, Your Highness." He grinned sheepishly, hoping the Prince would understand. "He said he'd only be gone for five minutes." He motioned with his eyes to the gatehouse.

Sparhawk's expression didn't change, and the guard gulped audibly. At this point the other guard returned, his face filled with anticipation for a tantalizing tale, until he noticed the additional—and one would dare say intimidating—presence of the Prince Consort. The returning guard's greeting was very similar to his partner's, including the stuttering.

"Good to see your stomach's no longer a problem, young man," Sparhawk quipped. He stalked back to his horse and mounted. The big man nudged his horse over to the waiting guards. Standing over them, he glared menacingly, causing the guards, who were definitely no more than boys, to cringe. "While God appreciates your willingness to be fruitful and multiply, boys," He growled, "I'm sure he would understand if you kept your loins in check until you've retired to your quarters for the night."

The guards lowered their heads, shamefaced. "Yes, Your Highness. It won't happen again, Prince Sparhawk."

"I'm most certain it will not. I don't know what silly ass made the schedule, but two men with your lack of experience should never share the watch. I'll see to that immediately." Sparhawk paused, as if thinking of some grand idea. The embarrassed men waited with bated breath, anticipating further punishment. "I was tempted to report this incident to your superiors, but I think you may have already learned your lesson. I will be sure to arrange for the two of you to perform your duties separately and with more senior staff. I'll check with them from time to time, just to make sure you're both progressing, of course."

Upon hearing the Prince Consort's decision to show mercy, the two young guards blubbered their thanks. The one caught in the compromising position went so far as to sink to his knees in gratitude and praise Sparhawk for his wisdom.

"Get out of the rain, both of you," he said in a gentler tone of voice. "It won't do for watchmen to catch cold." With that business concluded, Sparhawk nudged his horse forward again and entered the city.

It was a testament to his training as a Pandion Knight that Sparhawk did not allow himself to laugh at the incident until he was certain he was no longer in earshot. It was probably the most humorous return to Cimmura he'd ever experienced, and it would certainly be a great story to relate to Kalten when they met up again. The two men had probably been involved in more serious shenanigans during their novitiates with the Pandion Order, which is why Sparhawk didn't consider punishing the guardsmen for dereliction of duty. He was serious about splitting them up, however, and made a mental note to take care of that as soon as the city awoke.

From the gate, the ride to the palace passed without incident, so the Pandion was able to let his mind wander over recent events.

Much had changed since his return from the Tamul Empire, and the Church was in the center, or at least marginally involved in most of it. Lord Abriel's death on the coast of the Daresian continent had plunged the Cyrinic Order into a five-month mourning period characteristic of the passionate Arcians. It would have lasted longer had the pragmatic business of selecting a successor not intruded upon the dramatic scene. As preceptor of the Pandion Knights, it was Sparhawk's duty to attend the investiture of a brother preceptor, and so it was with much pomp and circumstance that he journeyed to the holy city of Chyrellos to witness the event. Had it been up to him, he would have simply saddled Faran, grabbed his squire and headed off, but his station as preceptor—not to mention Prince Consort—had precluded any such abandonment of duty to ritual.

As the queen loved ceremonies and had insisted upon attending herself, Sparhawk simply resigned himself to an entourage, but as he'd done many times in the past, haggled Ehlana down to acceptable numbers of courtiers and knights to accompany them both. The large knight had counted it a victory that the knights outnumbered the courtiers nearly two to one. That Kalten was along for the trip meant that he could rely upon the man he trusted above all else in combat, save his long-dead squire, Kurik.

The journey to the seat of spiritual power in Eosia passed without incident, which made Sparhawk and Kalten breathe a sigh of relief. As a married man wed to a woman he actually loved, Kalten now truly understood how seriously Sparhawk took his devotion to protecting his wife. Alean, now a member of court as a titled noble and no longer a lady maid, continued to attend the queen and princess as she'd always done, though in more expensive clothing. She was clearly uncomfortable with her elevation to any exalted station above that of servant, but her love for Sparhawk's childhood friend and desire to make an honest knight out of him made it fairly easy for the normally timid woman to accept a barony from her queen. It only took one challenge to a discourteous courtier to silence any snobbery toward Kalten's wife, though Sparhawk was certain that his friend would have enjoyed roughing up more than one puffed up popinjay.

According to custom, the Cyrinic Order had sent a list of candidates for the vacated preceptorship to the Archprelate. Until the ceremony commenced, no one but Sarathi knew who the head of the Order would be. Sparhawk had been simmering with impatience by the time he and Kalten helped their wives from the royal carriage and escorted them into the Basilica. They'd only patched up decades-long differences between the militant orders over the last few years, and there was no telling how relations between them would fare, now that a new knight would lead the Cyrinics. The night of their arrival, Sparhawk received an invitation from Patriarch Bergsten to dine with his fellow preceptors in order to discuss that very subject. In the years since the orders had dispatched their individual champions to aid the Pandion in his quest to restore Ehlana to her throne, Archprelate Dolmont conferred upon Bergsten a special office—that of keeping the militant orders working in concert, a role which he took _very_ seriously. Bergsten's role in administering the four orders, not to mention his personality, presented the invitation as an unbreakable command. It wasn't until after receiving an exhortation—more of a warning, really—to embrace the new Cyrinic Preceptor that Sparhawk was able to join Sirs Kalten and Berit in their mini-reunion with his friends from the other orders: Sir Tynian of the Alcoine Order and Sir Ulath the Genedian. He knew he could count on these men to inject some old fashioned humor into the seriousness of the next day's proceedings. Sir Bevier of the Cyrinic order was greatly missed, but as he was to receive his new preceptor in the morning, they knew he would spend his evening in prayer and contemplation.

"We really need to get that man a wife, Sparhawk," Kalten said between mouthfuls of roast beef. "Too much prayer can corrupt a man."

His friends laughed and heartily agreed.

The following morning, the Prince Consort installed Queen Ehlana in the area of the nave reserved for monarchs, at the very front in an ornate pew to the right of the aisle. From the expression on her face, a look of appropriately arranged reverence for the occasion with a peculiar glint in her gray eyes, the big Pandion knew his wife was composing a speech, just in case. Kalten escorted Alean to her seat with the nobility, which put her directly behind the Queen of Elenia, and joined the ranks of Pandions in their pews on the left behind the Cyrinic Order, who, as recipients of the newest preceptor, sat directly behind the preceptors on the left side of the nave. On his way to his seat next to Komier, the Genedian preceptor, Sparhawk's gaze swept over the pews of knights. Because all were in ceremonial dress, but not armor, it was fairly easy to recognize his friends in the dense crowd. Still, it never occurred to him that any of them were missing until the ceremony began. It wasn't until Sir Bevier stepped out of the shadows to speak his vows in front of the Archprelate and those in attendance that reality dawned on Sparhawk and his friends.

When he, Darelleon and Komier were called forward to welcome him as a brother, Sparhawk had hugged his friend a little tighter than the others and whispered, "We've managed to keep you out of the priesthood, Bevier. Now, all we need to do is find you a wife."

None of his fellow Cyrinics were ever able to find out why Preceptor Bevier blushed so furiously that day.

Before the entourage left the holy city, Sparhawk did manage to meet with Bevier. Sir Bevier was still a little shocked at the turn of events, and had spent hours before and after the ceremony in silent prayer deep in the confines of his order's chapter house. The olive skinned man had been on the verge of renouncing his spurs for the cassock for a number of years. He had a strong desire to spread the Elene faith as well as defend it, but his friends secretly felt he was not cut out for a life of quiet reflection and humble ministry to a host of believers.

As a noble, Bevier would most likely find himself shepherd to the vainest flock on the continent; one self-centered bleating too many, and he would accidentally reach for his Lochaber axe when blessing a particularly irksome courtier. Bevier's nature of balanced passion and restraint, not to mention his talent for military strategy, made him a natural as a Church Knight. In hindsight Sparhawk was not surprised to see his friend invested as the Cyrinic preceptor. As they parted, they made plans for an official visit as preceptors of their respective orders, but the wink Bevier gave him assured Sparhawk that they would also meet as friends.

As his last task before leaving Chyrellos, Sparhawk had selected a number of Pandions to remain at the chapter house and choose others to return to Cimmura. Upon his return from Daresia, he'd made the decision to institute a rotating schedule for his knights to garrison at various Pandion strongholds. Knights who were stationed at the heart of the Elene church too long had a tendency to get a little soft, and in the years following the incredible loss of men by Klæl's hand, lazy knights were more of a liability. Other than house masters or the very old and infirm, all knights were subject to this ruling. Kalten had grumbled more than a little during his three-month stint at the motherhouse in Demos, even though Sparhawk was there with him.

Those Pandions bound for Cimmura said goodbye to their friends and comrades, including Sir Berit, who looked on with an envious expression as friends with whom he'd shared so many adventure left without him. Along with the knights bound for Cimmura, Sparhawk had welcomed Ulath and Tynian along for the trip. The train winded back at a leisurely base, which gave them all a chance to continue the conversations begun the evening. With the group of knights trotting along side the carriage, it almost felt like the old days of plotting and scheming on tow different continents. Tynian had begun the trip with a particularly stormy face.

"You don't look particularly happy to leave our holy city, Sir Knight," Ehlana remarked from her perch in the carriage, an impish look on her face.

"On the contrary, my Queen," Tynian replied. "I'm very relieved. I didn't think I'd ever get to leave."

"It is the seat of our faith, Sir Tynian," an older Pandion riding nearby answered.

"I don't mind visiting every once and a while, brother Knight, but three months is an eternity."

Sparhawk maintained a straight face. He looked back and found Kalten riding with a few Pandions with whom they'd trained as novices. Certain that the blonde man would not arrive to spoil his fun, he inquired about Tynian's predicament. "Three months?"

"Darelleon somehow got it into his head that our order needed to start rotating personnel among our chapter houses. Something about knights getting soft if they stayed in Chyrellos too long. I was among those sent to Chyrellos over the winter." Tynian grimaced. "There's very little to do in the winter except avoiding lazy functionaries with an agenda and prayer. It's probably a Cyrinic idea."

"God appreciates your sacrifice," Ulath said piously.

"When's _your_ tour?" Tynian asked pointedly. I heard tell Komier's planned to follow suit."

Ulath emitted a grunt that sounded very close to "summer."

Sparhawk was more than amused at his friends' discomfort. "We're supposed to welcome a tenure in the holiest city in the world," he offered.

"Holy? It's about as dirty as the back alleys of Cimmura." Tynian looked over at the Queen ruefully. "No offence, your Majesty."

"Let me think about that for a moment, Tynian," Ehlana sniffed.

The caravan arrived at Demos in good time, stopping at the Pandion Motherhouse in the early afternoon. Sparhawk tarried long enough to rotate knights and receive an account of the novitiates' progress from the head trainers. He made a special point to look in on a few of the young men personally. Sparhawk didn't need to hear a report to know Kurik's sons were showing up their fellow trainees as usual. Talen, his late squire's youngest, had begun his novitiate after their return from Daresia. It was a rare time of the week when neither classes nor field training captured the trainees' attention. A group of novices had recently seen Talen in the mess hall, so it was there that Sparhawk first sought his youngest charge. The boy had staked his territory at a long, wooden table, jealously guarding the vestiges of the midday meal. Standing nearby was an older male, another of Kurik's boys, speaking with several men the Pandion recognized as trainers. The eldest trainer was the first to notice Sparhawk approach, and quickly strode forward to greet the head of the order.

"Well met, your Grace," he stated with a formal bow. Sparhark inclined his head in acknowledgement. He served his novitiate with this one. Sepan was his name, if memory served. He was always too formal for his own good, and Kalten had been certain his piety would send him into a monastery before his novitiate was over. In the end, Sepan stayed in thed order, but elected to turn his life over to teaching future knights after a few years in the field. He turned out to be one of the Pandion's best teachers, and scores of church knights owed their continued existence to his training.

The other trainers followed with greetings of their own before the group entire made their way out of the mess hall. Only Sparhawk, Talen, and his brother, Michel, were left at the table. The grumble in Sparhawk's stomach inspired him to grab an apple from the bowl in the middle of the table as he sat down.

"How is Demos treating you, Talen?" Sparhawk inquired. Despite the lapses in the young lad's upbringing, Talen was an incredibly intelligent boy, and the big Pandion was fond of him.

Talen looked around before gesturing with the sandwich he was eating —his second in the last twenty minutes. The young thief was still a little sullen about his enforced change in career, but he only said as much to Sparhawk after his trainers were out of earshot.

"Is it really necessary for them to kick you out of bed at the crack of dawn?" he complained. "Between the classroom work and the practice field, the chapel and chores, I barely have any time to eat, let alone sleep."

"God appreciates your sacrifice, my son," Michel intoned piously. He looked over at Sparhawk with a benign expression. "He's still a ne'er do well, Lord Preceptor. I'm afraid my little brother is hopeless."

Talen choked on his lunch. _"Hopeless?"_

Michel laughed uproariously. "He's actually doing pretty well, Sparhawk. He's a little behind on sword work because he started later than his classmates, but we're putting him through his paces, so he can catch up." Talen glowered at his brother behind his massive sandwich.

Sparhawk approved of the way Kurik's sons stuck together. Kalten was the closest he had to a brother and, having been raised in Sparhawk's home after his own parents had died, had watched his back for over twenty years. It was comforting, really. "Good," he said, getting up from his seat. Is Khalad here, or has he gone to visit your mothers?"

"Neither, actually," answered Talen. "He got your message to meet him at your estate, so he left this morning. If there's any fresh bread baking, though, he may have stopped off at home on the way."

Sparhawk grunted as he shifted his mail shirt back into position. Grabbing another apple for Faran and one for the road, he made ready to leave. "Give your brothers my regards, boys. I'd better catch up with Khalad before he starts on about nobles and tardiness." He clasped Michel on the shoulder. "Keep that boy out of trouble," he added, and headed out of the room.

"Sparhawk's getting old," Talen muttered mutinously. "He never used to grunt so much."

The young thief didn't notice the apple sailing through the air until it hit him on the back of his head.

"Apparently not," said Michel, looking down as Talen picked himself off the floor.

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Original Characters   
Michel (same as "Michael") One of Kurik's sons, eldest save Khalad  
Sepan (**seh**-pan): Pandion's chief trainer at Demos 


End file.
